


metaphors and tales

by sharpestsatire



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Elizabeth Keen - Freeform, F/M, Raymond Reddington - Freeform, or it will be a character tag so, this is a direct reaction to 2x16 but I can’t tag it as ’Tom Keen’, vague romance? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharpestsatire/pseuds/sharpestsatire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Red, we need to talk.”</p><p>In the history of mankind itself, no good had ever come of those words, but Liz couldn’t think of phrasing it any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	metaphors and tales

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tag to the last episode, “Tom Keen.” (2x16.) I’m not sure if it’s officially a tag for the episode, per se, but it is in reaction to it and happens the day after the episode. 
> 
> Thank you to [czarnyzeszyt](http://czarnyzeszyt.tumblr.com/) from tumblr for beta-ing for me! They’re great. Any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I do not own the Blacklist.

“Red, we need to talk.”

In the history of mankind itself, no good had ever come of those words, but Liz couldn’t think of phrasing it any other way.

“Good morning to you too, Lizzy, my dear.” Red sounded as if he he were in a distinctly jovial mood. And why not? The weather was lovely outside, and they had just taken a blacklister down yesterday. Not even ominous words from his “dear” Lizzy could get him down.

Liz pressed the phone to her ear a little harder, closing her eyes so hard that she saw bright sparks behind her eyes. Her heart was in her throat, but she couldn’t sidestep the issue anymore.

“Red,” she said tightly.

“Is something wrong?” Just like that, any joviality, faux or otherwise, disappeared from his voice. “If someone is in the room with you and wants to meet me and is using you, just say ‘I need to see you and only you, Raymond,’ okay? I’ll—”

“No,” Liz said quickly. “No, nothing like that. We just need to talk. Do you know Cafe Vérité?”

“Vérité?” The word rolled off his tongue with perfect accent, not a single trip over the word unlike her attempt. “Yes, I know it. I’ll be there in less than thirty minutes.”

He hung up.

Liz looked around her hotel room blankly, the phone beeping twice in her ear before falling silent. After a moment, she left the still room. Her hand only shook slightly when she closed the door behind her.

_I can’t believe I’m doing this._

~=*=~

Raymond Reddington breezed into the small cafe as only he could: sucking attention to himself like asteroids to a planet’s orbit. He cut a clean and striking figure in the small, sunshine-filled cafe.

“Lizzy!” he called, greeting her with a smile.

“Red,” she replied, giving a perfunctory smile as he approached. He was speaking even as he approached. Dembe remained at the door, watching out the cafe windows.

“I’m pleased you found this little cafe!” he told her, pulling out a chair and taking off his hat. “I have often found that the places most noted for serving the best food or coffee or what have you, are usually dull in comparison with the modest little places such as this. This particular cafe serves a divine—”

“Red, this isn’t a social call,” Liz interrupted. They never were anyway. A waiter approached and placed a glass of water in front of them. After their refusal of anything else for the time being, Liz waited until the waiter was out of sight before saying, “We need to talk.”

Red immediately became serious, the storytelling facet of his person disappearing in a blink. He sat very still in his chair, one arm on the table before him, his hand curled around the glass of water at his spot. He had kept his jacket on, like armor, and kept his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her. He didn’t seem to bother with appearing casual and comfortable, instead sitting in his chair with the wariness of a prisoner on death row. Yet, to anyone else, he would appear casually comfortable.

A small part of her noted how easily she read a man she barely seemed to know most times.

“What’s wrong, Liz?” he asked finally.

Some part of Liz laughed loudly inside, but it was tinted deeply with bitterness. The words “what isn’t wrong?” almost sprang from her lips.

Liz inhaled deeply and leaned forward. She rested her forearms on the table and clasped her hands. She met Red’s gaze directly, saw gentle concern flicker in his gaze.

“What were you doing the night of the fire?”

She saw him blink, but he said nothing.

“What’s the Fulcrum?”

His jaw flexed. His gaze seemed frozen on her, as if petrified to move.

Liz leaned farther across the table, entire body straining towards him. “Red, _why_ won’t you explain _anything_ to me? _Why_?”

Unlike in past conversations, her tone wasn’t angry. It wasn’t demanding. It was a simple plea, that came from being pushed too far into confusion, too far into a world she hardly knew, and that she barely scraped by in because she didn’t hold all the cards. Unlike Red.

“I _can’t_ ,” Red rasped. “I can’t _lose_ you. You’re too far in for me to explain now.”

Liz leaned back into her chair and stared at him. “You’re losing me already and in ‘too far’? That’s a load of—”

The bell on the door tinkled cheerfully. Liz broke eye contact with him, sucking in a breath. She briefly watched the cafe world around her, oblivious and bustling and quaint, completely unaware of the tension at one table.

“Red, I’m going to take some time off,” Liz said finally, not meeting his eye.

“Excellent,” Red said immediately and genially. “I know a few places that you would absolutely l—”

“Time off means time away from you,” Liz said.

“ … I don’t under—”

“Red, I don’t know anything,” Liz said. “I don’t know what the Fulcrum means or does. I don’t know what happened the night of the fire, and certainly not your role in it. I don’t know _anything_. Everything in my life has turned out to be a lie since you walked into it. I’m too afraid to assume anything at this point about _anything_ involved with either you or the Fulcrum. And at this point, that could be anything.”

Red’s knuckles were white around the glass of water. He was taut in his seat, motionless, shoulders tense. He didn’t seem to breathe.

Liz leaned farther back into her chair, wrapping her arms around her waist, even though she knew he could read her body language.

“I’m not going to lie,” she said. “I know you _are_ more than an informant to me. I care about you. But I don’t know why you’re doing this, and you _won’t tell me_. I know it has something to do with the fire and the Fulcrum. I know it can’t be that you’re my father, because no father, criminal or otherwise, would talk to their daughter about tangos and hideous fish like that. But after that, I have nothing. My husband was a lie, but at least there’s no doubt of that now. With you, I don’t know what’s true and what’s not.”

“If you can’t trust _me_ , at least trust my intent,” Red interrupted, shifting suddenly towards her, fingers falling away limply from the glass. He held onto the edge of the table lightly. He spoke quickly. “I won’t hurt you and I’ll protect you, from everything and everyone.”

Liz almost flinched. “I know,” she said, voice cracking. “And that’s a comfort. But it’s also terrifying. Don’t you understand? Your devotion to me scares me. And—and you would _kill_ for me and that’s not romantic. That’s—that’s horrifying. And I don’t even _understand_ why you would. You only give me metaphors and tales, but I don’t actually know _why_. I can’t do this, Red.”

“Lizzy—”

“Can I get you guys something?” the waiter interrupted, pen hovering over a writing pad.

“No, thank you,” Liz said.

“No.”

“Okay, well, just wave if you guys need anything.”

It was jarring and broke the tension briefly. Liz took a sip of her water, and tried to marshal her thoughts. Red was still leaning over the table, holding onto the edges as if it were a lifeline.

“I can give you time,” Red said. “I’ll give you anything you need. Even if it’s to walk out of your life.”

“This is a repeat of what’s happened before,” Liz said. “And I have to call you out on it now. You know it’s too complex for you to just walk out. But, yes, I need time. I need to figure out what you are and if this… situation is going to change any time soon.”

Liz sucked in a deep breath. “I am more than my job, Red. I am. And I’ll walk away if I need to. This… _us_ is what needs figuring out. The job means nothing. After my time off, I’ll call you and we’ll talk. Because I think you need some time to think too. We both need to figure out our priorities better. I don’t want to be your master, and I’m no means of redemption. I don’t think you get that. I’m tired of taking advantage unintentionally or not, even if you’re willing. I—”

Liz stood up abruptly. She grabbed the her coat from the back of her chair. “I could profile you— _this_ —all day,” she said, words tripping over themselves. “But I need some time.”

“I’ll wait,” Red said immediately. The only part of him that had moved was his head, tilted back to look at her. He still sat in his chair, gripping the table. She could see a pulse move in his neck. Her heart ached. “Of course I’ll wait.”

“And think,” Liz said. “Please… please, just think too. Because even I’m not sure if you even know what I am to you anymore. We’re in too deep. I’ll call Dembe by the end of the month.”

Liz reached out and touched his check lightly. Red suddenly dropped his gaze, but didn’t move, just accepted her touch.

And then she was gone, leaving the faint smell of lavender and hotel soap behind her after she brushed by. Red sat for ten minutes in the same position before moving. He picked up his hat, and methodically put it on. He left a moment later, Dembe a shadow behind him.

True to her word, Liz did not make contact with Red until two weeks later. Red kept an eye on her from a distance, but didn’t know where she was, leaving it up to Dembe’s wisdom if he thought she was in danger.

Red picked up on the third ring. “Lizzy.”

“Red, we need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I used Google Translate for the cafe name. I thought it would be amusing to call the cafe “truth” in the “language of love.” Anyone else find that weirdly amusing? Anyone? Just me? That’s fine.
> 
> Like I said, this story is a reaction to watching 2x16. I like the show, and I love the bones they keep throwing up. I like the hideous fish story, how she held his hand in—I guess it was season one?—and all the other things. But they throw so much emotional punch, but don’t seem to actually change the show that much. She never leaves her job or completely shuts him out, even after the whole Luther Braxton thing. They’re both too tangled at this point, and need to take a step back, reevaluate. 
> 
> I don’t really consider this Lizzington, since they’ve held hands before, but I guess this could be.
> 
> Read and review, if it pleases you!


End file.
